Is this a game?
by threeninefour
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. One-shot. It was time for Sherlock to return, in a way he never expected to. "Welcome back, Sherlock."


_**Is this a game?**_

 _By: threeninefour_

 _A Sherlock One-shot_

 **Author's Note:** Oh, hello! This is my first try at Sherlock BBC fanfiction and I daresay I tried my best. Sherlock, John and Mycroft may be out-of-character, as much as I did not intend for them to be. Inspiration taken from Pinterest, I'm only adding in the missing parts of the story. This is set after the Reichenbach Fall (Series 2 Episode 3) Enough words, enjoy.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Sherlock BBC_.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes entered the room of Sherlock Holmes, carefully leaning his umbrella against the wall.

"Good evening, brothermine. I see the lack of visiting me gained you some weight. How's the weighing scale? Is it broken?"

Mycroft Holmes stared back at his brother, and placed a file on his bed. "This is not the time, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Normally you'd join in the fun, diet gone wrong?" Sherlock picked up the file with his thin hands, and flipped through briefly.

"Series of murders in London, victims all seemingly random, locations random, all estimated time of deaths in the afternoon, earliest at 1:35 pm, both genders, large age gaps, different job occupations, appearance–" Mycroft stated.

"They were all wearing a blue scarf," Sherlock cut in, and glanced at his blue scarf hanging behind the door.

Mycroft nodded his head and pressed his lips together.

Sherlock closed the file abruptly and placed it carelessly on his bed, and strode to the other end of the room, pinning a map of London on the wall.

"There, there, there...all the murder locations." Sherlock drew on all the locations by memory, muttering to himself throughout.

"No, no, I can't see any pattern..." Sherlock pinched his nose bridge, and hastily picked up the file once more.

"Blue scarf..." Sherlock muttered again. "All with a knife. A Swiss Army knife. Severed external jugular vein...no other signs of struggle."

"The work of a skilled killer."

"Why, Mycroft, why a knife? Why not a gun with a silencer?" Sherlock started pacing about. "He could dislike noise. Or think it too swift to kill someone instantly."

Flipping through the file once more, Sherlock suddenly pointed at one of the victim's page. He turned the file to face Mycroft, and pointed to the victim's height. "Or, he could be a she. Marcus Roule, 183 centimetres in height. Slit external jugular vein at an angle. Definitely shorter than 183 centimetres, and judging by the angle, someone at the height of 170 centimetres approximately."

"All of the murders were by the external jugular vein. Exactly at the external jugular vein. Why not the carotid artery?" Sherlock snapped the file closed, looking up at Mycroft.

"Left handed."

"All the murders were committed swiftly and not in very isolated places...he or she knew the time taken to bleed to death," Sherlock started pacing again.

"Someone that studied medicine."

"Blue scarf, Swiss Army knife, 170 centimetres in height, left-handed, skilled killer, studied medicine." Sherlock rubbed his temples, digging into his Mind Palace.

Ring! Mycroft answered his phone. "Anthea? Yes, thank you." He then took the marker from Sherlock and circled another location. "Darcy Evans, aged 25, blue scarf, severed external jugular vein, height 168 centimetres, work of the same killer."

"Is that it?" Sherlock asked, taking in the information.

"On the ground beside her. Written with her blood. The numbers two, nine, zero, one."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and Mycroft could see the sparkle in his brother's eyes.

 _The game was on._

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, murmuring the numbers to himself. "Two nine zero one. Street number, house number, birthdays, serial numbers, credit card numbers...dates. It's a date, dear brother! January 29!"

 _January 29. No._

Sherlock rubbed his fingers together, and closed his eyes. "Mycroft, send me all the locations of where the victims were at the time of 1:29 pm on the day of their deaths."

"Done," Sherlock capped his marker and jerked to face Mycroft again.

"Brixton, Fulham, Herringay, all the other locations," Sherlock pointed at the newly marked map.

"A spiral."

"Indeed, brother."

"And they all lead to–"

"221b Baker Street."

"Sherlock, it's time to return."

Sherlock stayed silent and picked up his violin.

Mycroft took his actions as a dismissal, and retrieved his umbrella, leaving the room.

 _221b Baker Street. Dear God, no._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes walked as discreetly as he could manage down the street, defining cheekbones hidden by his blue scarf, his brown curly locks tamed under a random hat, his tall figure casting a light shadow on the pavement.

Reaching the front door of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock stood in front of it, preparing himself for the inevitable.

Opening the front door, he cautiously stepped in, climbing up the stairs as swiftly and silently as he could. The door of 221b was left slightly ajar, and Sherlock's hand moved to touch his handgun. Adrenaline slowly coursed through his veins, and his nerves tingled at the challenge ahead. Slowly turning the door knob, the door opened with a creak. Scanning the familiar apartment, Sherlock picked up the differences.

The table was just as messy, but he recognised the signs of movement; one of the chairs was tucked in under the table, dent marks in the carpet indicated that it was not moved for a long time, while the other was left slanted, and the dust on it told Sherlock the chair was sat on frequently before, but recently left untouched.

Sherlocks's eyes continued scanning the details, until his gaze landed on the drawer he had kept his old gun. Walking towards it, Sherlock slid it open and found the gun in the same position he left it in, but the sliding marks indicated frequent opening.

Sherlock's heart almost skipped a beat.

His body froze, and he could clearly hear his own breathing.

Something was off.

Straining his ears, he could not hear any noise belonging to 221a Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes broke free of his frozen stance and ran out of the apartment, shouting his landlady's name.

"Mrs Hudson! _Mrs Hudson_!"

Stepping into the apartment of 221a Baker Street, Sherlock's blood ran cold at the sight greeting him.

Mrs Hudson was held at knifepoint by no one other than someone Sherlock could call his only friend. His best friend.

John Hamish Watson smiled at Sherlock's shocked expression, while Mrs Hudson gasped out with fear and shock mixed in her voice. " _Sh-Sherlock!_ "

"I wasn't wrong. I knew you were alive." John cocked his head to the side, eyes staring into Sherlock's blue ones.

"John. John." Sherlock slowly raised a hand up, his baritone voice resounding in the apartment.

"I cried for you, Sherlock. I spoke with you on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's. I pleaded for you to stop. And you said it was all a magic trick. I saw you fall."

Sherlock could feel his heart racing.

"I saw your corpse bleeding on the ground. I took your non-existent pulse." John's arm held Mrs Hudson tighter, and the blade of his Swiss Army knife pricked the dry skin of her neck.

"John, I know. Please put that down, John-" Sherlock kept his voice still, and his face blank.

"It was all a trick, was it not? It is all a magic trick, I knew, Sherlock. Is it all a game to you?"

 _Is it a game?_

"I knew, that's why I stopped thinking of ways to join you, I stopped contemplating between the rope, the gun, the car, the bridge, the roof. I started thinking of how to let the great detective Sherlock Holmes appear."

Blood started trickling down the crinkled skin of Mrs Hudson's neck, and John looked crazier than ever.

"What's a better way than creating a case for the Great Detective to solve?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and hesitantly took out the handgun. "John, you don't have to do this. I'm back, John, and I am truly sorry-"

" _What_ , Sherlock? Truly sorry for the anguish and sorrow you had caused me? Sorry for what? _I WATCHED YOU FALL, SHERLOCK!_ "

Sherlock's palms started to sweat, and he slowly aimed the barrel of his handgun at John's forehead. "John, it's my fault, everything is my fault, let Mrs Hudson go. She has nothing to do with this."

"Nothing to do with this? ANYONE related to you in any way has something to do with this. Say goodbye, Sherlock." John's eyes reflected the mania in his mind, and with a swift move, he sliced Mrs Hudson's external jugular vein.

A whimper escaped from her lips, and her eyes screamed for help.

Mrs. Hudson crumpled onto the floor, but Sherlock could not move his eyes to look at his landlady.

Sherlock immediately pressed the trigger, but the bullet, perhaps sentient and feeling his hesitance and dread at opening fire, went through John's shoulder instead of his forehead.

A grin appeared on John's face, while blood started spluttering out of the wound.

"Welcome back, Sherlock."

That's when Sherlock stopped playing the game.

And his world went black.

"How is Mrs Hudson?"

"She's fine, and she swore that she would never ever listen to what the British Government say again."

"The wound on your shoulder?"

"It was a clean shot, he hesitated." The man raised his eyebrows. "Did it work?"

"Are you doubting me, Dr. Watson?"

"Should I?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Completed one-shot. If responses are supporting of a follow-up, I may continue this story, but as of now, this will be compete. I apologise for any grammatical errors, etc. as I am not great at English. Please review, as they literally feed my muse!


End file.
